by Anne O'Brien
It was ridiculous to suggest it. He would never—could never—ally himself with the de Longspeys. And Rosamund de Longspey was nothing like the woman he envisaged to replace Matilda. What was it he had said to Hugh when he had last suggested that he remarry? Conformable, biddable. A gracious chatelaine for his homes…Yet when, as he wielded the knife—now sharpened—to trim the bundles of reeds newly cut from the river bank, he tried to bring such a paragon of virtues into sharp focus, he failed dismally. It had even become increasingly difficult, if he were brutally honest, to recall Matilda, other than a young girl with a slight figure, an oval face with pale blue eyes and gentle features. All he could picture now, damn the woman, was the simmering heat and sharp responses of the de Longspey heiress. A flash of green fire in her eyes, of red-gold flame in her hair. A will strong enough to bend iron. Obviously the reason why she was not already married. No one was prepared to take her on, except for Ralph de Morgan with the three border castles as the irresistible bait.
With no husband, what would lie in store for her? A convent? That was beyond his imagining. More like a life dependent on the reluctant charity of her stepbrothers, a well-born companion for one of their wives to help with the upbringing of their children. Not an attractive picture for a woman of forceful character. He could almost pity her. No…! She was not a woman to stir his pity.
Marry her yourself.
The idea returned once more. Damn Hugh for planting it! Green eyes, clear as a stream in the hills to the west. Pale skin with the delicate scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Not over tall, but a neatly proportioned figure. Hair he had never seen unbound, but that he could imagine drifting in a red-gold cloud over her naked shoulders, curling over the swell of her breasts…
His hand tightened on the thatching knife, swearing at the product of his imagination. It was like a physical blow to his gut. A tightening in his loins. Imagine if the rest of her was as pale and smooth as her cheek. Imagine what it would be like to smooth his fingers down over the delicate curve of her shoulder, to splay his hand on the rounded fullness of her hip. Gervase inhaled sharply as the tightening grew harder, more uncomfortable, to his annoyance, then grabbed a nearby pail of water, to dash most of the freezing contents over his face in an effort to regain control of his wayward body. It failed to have the desired effect. Gervase grimaced. The sooner Rosamund was gone, the better.
Where would she go? He would not allow his thoughts to travel down that path. He was not the one to rescue her from her predicament. She could not stay at Clifford, and where she would go was not his concern. Why not marry Ralph and have done with it…?
The thought appalled him.
By the Virgin! She had got under his skin.
Gervase abandoned overseeing the thatching to Watkins and decided to inspect the progress of the re-siting of the midden, as far from the living accommodations as possible. A foul task, unpleasant enough to concentrate the mind on the rank odours rather than the destiny of a bronze-haired, emerald-eyed woman, who had absolutely no claim on him, yet succeeded in disturbing both his conscience and his loins.
At daybreak Rosamund was awoken to the sound of her mother scrambling from her bed, to disappear through the door that led to the space in the thickness of the wall enclosing the garderobe. Distressing sounds of retching followed. Rosamund promptly leapt from the covers, followed to wipe Petronilla’s forehead with a square of damp linen, to hold her shoulders as the retching continued. When the spasms were done, she led her back and helped her mother, concerned at her sudden frailty, to lie back against the pillows.
‘What is it?’ Hiding her anxieties, searching her mother’s wrists and arms for any sign of a rash, Rosamund smoothed back the sweat-damp hair from Petronilla’s clammy face. ‘Do you have any pain?’
Eyes closed, Petronilla groaned and pushed her daughter’s hand away. ‘No, just…’ She swallowed hastily. ‘I’d be grateful for a basin. I felt uneasy last night after the boiled mutton.’
‘I didn’t eat it.’
‘Very wise…’ Petronilla made use of the basin with neat efficiency, then collapsed back in exhaustion, breathing shallowly, her skin grey and slick with sweat.
Despite the fear that gripped her throat and weighed as a heavy lump beneath her heart, Rosamund outwardly remained calm. Nothing would come of running in circles like a chicken decapitated for the pot. But she needed help. Her own knowledge of ailments and cures were insufficient to deal with this. After enquires from Edith, Rosamund sent for the services of a Mistress Kempe from the village, a stalwart widow who ran the ale-house, with the reputation for knowledge and a deft hand with healing.
Mistress Kempe arrived, large and impressively overbearing, to take over the chamber with a confidence that amazed Rosamund. With bracing efficiency, she delved into the bag she carried, searching out packets of aromatic content, and, after a moment’s thought as she eyed her patient, the wise woman proceeded to administer a dose of vervain in ale together with a magic charm whispered in the afflicted lady’s ear. As an afterthought she took a walnut and smashed it viciously into pieces on the hearth—most impressive in guarding against the flux, my lady—whereupon Petronilla fell into an uneasy sleep.
‘Will she…will she soon recover?’ Rosamund asked, dreading the reply.
‘By tomorrow the lady will feel much more the thing. Continue to dose her. Merely a disorder of the belly,’ Mistress Kempe announced with assurance. ‘See, my lady. Here’s the faintest colour already returned to the Lady Petronilla’s cheeks.’
Which was true. Rosamund could feel some small sense of relief and was able to leave her mother’s side, watched over by Edith with the basin to hand. So, after expressing her gratitude to Mistress Kempe with a purse of coin and a recommendation to take food and drink before she returned to the village, it was later than her habitual routine for the day by the time Rosamund was dressed and able to leave her chamber. Only to be summoned by Sir Thomas, barely had she stepped out of her door, to attend Lord Fitz Osbern. Concerned for her mother, without thought for the manner of the summoning that Sir Thomas plainly enjoyed, she took herself without complaint to the west tower.
He had had one of the rooms arranged to his comfort, she noticed, with a standing table, a high-backed chair and a number of stools, obviously the place where he intended to conduct business. A tapestry had been hung on the wall beside the fireplace. A travelling chest to house documents had been pushed against the wall and carried an array of weapons. Little personal touches. Rosamund’s lips curled. Surprisingly comfortable for a brigand. And, from all appearances, he intended to stay. Not if she had her way. Once her mother was restored to health, of course, and she could concentrate again. She offered up a quick prayer that it would be so, holding to Mistress Kempe’s jovial heartiness.
Fitz Osbern was sitting in the chair as she entered.
‘At least you were quick in getting here,’ he announced. He did not sound pleased that she had. He smacked the flat of his hand down on to the table. ‘Is this…this recent situation of your doing?’
It was only than that she registered the tone of voice. The heavy line of his frown above eyes that glittered with hot rage. Nor did he show her the courtesy of rising to his feet, but left her standing before him in the middle of the room. It was almost, she realised, as if he sat in judgement on her.
‘Which situation, my lord?’ she asked cautiously.
‘I can’t believe that you could stand there in all innocence and deny it.’
‘I don’t—’
‘At least half of my men are down with a flux,’ he continued as if she had not spoken. ‘Would you try poison my whole garrison to punish me for my possession of Clifford?’
‘What? Poison?’
‘I see that you are not suffering, lady. You look remarkably well.’ His voice became a snarl. ‘I can’t imagine how I escaped. Perhaps you have something even worse in mind for me than flux and vomit.’
‘Poison…
’ Rosamund repeated, her mind scrabbling for understanding amidst the accusations. ‘You would accuse me of such a depth of malice…’ Hurt and anger warred within her in equal measure. That he should suspect her of so outrageous an act…
But have you not brought it on yourself?
No! Never that! She had plotted a degree of discomfort for him and his soldiers, that was true. But poison! That was far beyond the line of what she would consider acceptable.
‘I can think of no better explanation. How dare you resort to such immature and dangerous tactics, woman?’ Suddenly Fitz Osbern was on his feet, striding around the end of the table to confront her. She had never been so threatened by anyone in her life. ‘I should beat you for so foolhardy an act of wilful petulance.’
‘But I have not.’ Fear blossomed, knife-edged, overwhelming any personal concerns. Was it poison? Was her mother more seriously afflicted, in far greater danger, than she had thought? And if it was poison, whose hand had administered it? Horrified that tears should rise in her throat, to her eyes where they threatened to fall, Rosamund took a deep breath against them. ‘Is it poison? If so, I have done nothing to warrant so great an insult.’
‘And why should I believe you? When I can’t trust you out of my sight?’ Fitz Osbern sneered at her denial, utterly unbelieving, far too close, far too angry for comfort. How could he think so little of her, that she would put the lives of his men, of anyone, in deliberate danger? Had her character seemed so despicable to him? ‘The ale was tampered with by your own admission.’
‘But not poisoned. I do not lie. I admit to undermining your authority, but I do not lie. Besides, my own mother is ill.’ She steeled herself, battling back her fears. ‘I might make life uncomfortable for you, but I would never harm my mother. Whatever you think of me, you must believe that.’
An inauspicious grunt was the only response. He continued to glare at her.
‘If your men are poisoned, then so is my mother…’ At the sudden return of the naked fear that her mother was at risk, she pressed her fingers against her mouth to hide the quiver.
‘How is she?’ Fitz Osbern demanded, eyes suddenly intent, searching, but voice no more sympathetic.
‘Sick. Mistress Kempe has seen her and dosed her on vervain…’
‘Did it have any effect?’
‘I think she is easier. The vomiting has stopped…’
But she was aware that he was no longer listening. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere as he swung away from her to stare at the vibrant hunting scene in the tapestry, brow creased as if he considered something unpleasant.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
But he shook his head. ‘If you are not the culprit,’ he growled, ‘there’s only one answer. But if I find out that yours is the blame…’
And left her standing there, the threat shimmering in the cold air.
So if it was not poison, what had spread its sickness through the castle, harming some but skipping over others? With her mother’s comment on the boiled mutton stew in mind, Rosamund began her own investigation, sending a reluctant Master Pennard on a distasteful task to question the suffering garrison as to what they had eaten at the previous meal. The result seemed to prove the case. She ran Fitz Osbern to ground as he strode out of the kitchens, driven by the frustration of failure. He would have walked round her without a word, but she stepped in his path.
‘Did you eat the mutton stew last night, my lord?’
‘No.’
He would have pushed past her, but Rosamund reined in a spurt of temper and raised her arm to prevent it. Her hand grasped his sleeve.
‘Please, my lord,’ when he would have shaken her hand away. ‘Neither did I eat the mutton. But my mother did. As did your men who are sick.’
He halted and focused on her. ‘Ha!’ Then spun on his heel and vanished back into the kitchen again.
From that point, Fitz Osbern took control. Operations were rapidly removed from the kitchens to the bailey, to the vicinity of the well. After a calming visit to her mother, who was sleeping and looking decidedly less frail, Rosamund watched the activity from the steps outside the Great Hall, accepting the value of keeping her distance. It entailed Fitz Osbern, Hugh de Mortimer, who had also escaped the blight, and a quartet of healthy soldiers. Also Owen and a length of rope. They all shivered in the biting wind.
A bucket was lowered into the well, hauled up, the contents inspected and then dumped on the floor. It was impossible for Rosamund to know the outcome.
‘Let’s see what’s down there. Owen—you’ve drawn the short straw here. You’re the only one of a size not to get stuck.’ She heard Fitz Osbern’s voice carry as they tied a rope around Owen’s waist and shoulders and lowered him down into the mouth of the well, a bucket following.
Rosamund withdrew. In some sense it was a relief that he had taken over the investigation. It was her instinct to stay and watch, but sense dictated that it would do no good for her to hover. Her heart sank. He would seek her out, whatever the outcome.
‘So that’s it.’ Hugh de Mortimer poked at the evidence with the toe of his boot as it lay in a wet decomposing heap of black fur and claws at his feet.
‘So I think,’ Gervase replied. Owen shuddered in his wet garments at his side. ‘Well done, lad. Off into the kitchen now for dry clothes and a mug of ale. Tell the cook to feed you. Not mutton stew!’
Owen went at a run, with a grin, leaving Gervase to face facts. Polluted water, as simple as that. Now, apart from the thorough cleansing of the well, he had another pressing obligation. He was the first to admit he had been wrong, and had accused the de Longspey witch of poisoning the garrison without evidence. Now, he supposed, he must make his apologies. A loutish brigand might not be so compelled, but he could carry that act only so far. His eyes glittered with distaste at the prospect. Without doubt she had brought it on herself with her foolishness, but she had not deserved his harsh words. So he must seek her out. He shrank from it, as he would not have shrunk from fishing a decomposing animal out of their source of water, but he would do it. He remembered her eyes wide, her face pale as he attacked her. He thought he had actually threatened to beat her. Never had he seen her so distressed. Angry, yes, but not so full of dread. Fear for her mother’s safety, he thought in retrospect. And he had made it worse by shouting poison. Well! He would have to grasp the blade and put it right.
Leaving Hugh to supervise the cleaning of the well, he stomped into the Great Hall, where she wasn’t, and up to her solar, where she admitted him without a word. He had to admire the manner in which she faced him, spine erect, eyes steadily on his. He could see control in every inch of her, from her neat leather shoes to the crown of her head. But he saw that she wiped her palms down the sides of her gown as she waited for his report. Her cheekbones were stark against her pale skin. She was not as composed as she would have him believe. Her first words were even stronger evidence.
‘Well, my lord? Is it poison? If it is, I swear it’s not of my doing.’
So he would put her at ease, with no more recriminations. Calmly, he decided, as he detected the shine of moisture in her eyes. He had no wish to reduce her to tears. How did a man cope with a woman in tears, even if she was the enemy?
‘No. Not poison, but the water is foul. A cat fell in. I’ve seen it before, when dead bodies get into the water supply.’ He decided not to mention that it was more often human bodies in the battle campaigns of his experience. ‘The cat fell in the well and poisoned the water.’
‘But no one drinks the water.’
‘The mutton in the stew was heavily salted from last autumn, and so the cook soaked it in fresh water, as he thought, before cooking it. It poisoned the meat.’
‘I see.’ A silence fell between them. It unnerved him. What to say? Her eyes were bruised and tender, holding a heart full of grief and fear for Lady Petronilla. ‘It should have no lasting effects on those who ate it.’
‘No.’
‘De Mortime
r is putting it to rights.’
‘Yes, of course.’
She wasn’t making this easy for him, her eyes remaining unblinking on his, deep pools of anxiety that touched his conscience. ‘It’s another consequence of poor housekeeping. The well must be covered. I’ve instructed Master Pennard. And now I must see to my men.’
‘Mistress Kempe is still here. I’ll send her to you.’
He took a breath. ‘I have to apologise, lady. I was wrong.’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope you can accept it.’ He remembered how her breath had caught and how he had attacked her without mercy, but could think of nothing more to say. Nor could he allow himself to offer his hand in comfort. Gervase knew his limitations. If he did, he might just be tempted to enfold her in his arms and kiss her until the sadness fled.
‘I hope Lady Petronilla will recover soon.’
Left alone, Rosamund was forced to contemplate the day’s events, and those of the previous weeks, with dismay.
How dare you resort to such immature and dangerous tactics, woman?…I should beat you for so foolhardy an act of wilful petulance.
She feared that he was right. What had she been driven to, in her determination not to be cast into Ralph de Morgan’s arms? And then even though Fitz Osbern had come to apologise for his mistake, he had abandoned her almost immediately, as if he could not bear to be in the same room, breathe the same air. He had looked at her as if he detested the very ground she walked on.
You can hardly blame him, can you?
The shame of her behaviour in the cold light of day and her mother’s suffering weighed heavily. It was an uncomfortable experience, a self-condemnation that would not let her be.
Petronilla, still weak but able by evening of the following day to sit up and take note of her surroundings, did not help matters.
